we're all in our private traps
by cookiethewriter
Summary: roman's got his life all figured out, has all the makings of a beautiful future right in front of him. enter dean ambrose, a kid who's got none of that but a dream and an old leather jacket. put the two together, and well, it's a funny story... [AMBREIGNS. high school!au. implied/referenced child abuse. hurt/comfort. mature language. NO SMUT. updates on weekends!]
1. Chapter 1

**if you think you've seen this before ... welcome! you have! the original, full version of this is over on ao3! but if you're exclusive to ffnet, i figured i'd get my annual validation and Ego Boost(TM) and throw this over here, too. plus ... do you smell that? a smell. a kind of smelly smell. a smelly smell that smells... LIKE A SEQUEL! AHHHH! c: **

**prepare for the longest slowburn of your lives. :D**

**cover image by yarnshoes on tumblr. please give him a follow if ya can! **

**-Cookie**

* * *

Roman Reigns has always been the kind of guy who knows where he's going and how he's going to get there; son of NFL Hall of Famer-turned-business-tycoon Sika and his wife Lisa, a social worker for the state of Florida, success flows through his veins, from his good grades to his time on the football field. He's _magic_ on the field, whether he's running at a player to take them down to prevent a score or simply giving orders from the sidelines, he's a leader through and through. Spitting image of his father, who oozes charisma and strength with a dash of intimidating, though his mother's easygoing, kind personality takes him down a bit.

Admittedly, he's kind of a mama's boy, but that only means he's got a good streak a mile-and-a-half wide. Comes in handy when he's still trying to figure out what social life he's got.

As a football player, there's an image he has to uphold. He shows it on the field, where he's son of Sika, defensive-tackle Roman 'Big Dog' Reigns, 235-pounds of steel, determined to never, _ever_ break.

But he isn't just 'son of Sika', Roman Reigns. He's not just a defensive tackle with a knack for hurting people. Underneath his jersey and football gear, he's just a 17-year-old guy who likes football, playing video games, and hanging out with his buddies.

People forget that, sometimes.

Sometimes he does, too.

That's why it was nice that he had people like his cousins, Jimmy and Jey, to drag him out of the house and to force him to ease up on his training regimen before the team's first home game at the end of the week.

And he was totally ... _totally_ ... grateful.

* * *

"C'mon, _uce_, it's not that bad. An hour won't kill you."

Roman levels a look at his cousin, Jimmy, dark eyebrows knit in frustration. "Might not kill me, but it's sure as hell gonna annoy me. Parties ain't my thing, so explain to me again how this is supposed to help me?"

Jimmy, with a big grin on his face - he must have known Roman would say something like that - just says, "Between Uncle Sika and you, I swear, it's like the word 'fun' was ripped outta your vocabulary. Just trust me!"

He could do that. Begrudgingly, but he could.

"Fine. An _hour._"

Jimmy led Roman into the estate of their class president John Cena, where music bopped against the painted walls and the smell of the grill in the back overrode every instinct in Roman's body to turn back. Teenagers were scattered everywhere throughout the first floor, that Roman could see, from the front hallway to the living room, the kitchen, all spilling outside to the back patio. Already, he could feel the pressure locked between his shoulders ease and the stubborn square of his shoulders dissipate.

"Hey-hey, Big Dog!"

Roman turns around at the voice, hand already poised in a handshake as Mojo Rawley, one of his teammates, comes up from behind him to clap his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Mojo."

"Wow, I can't believe you actually got him to come," that was to Jimmy, who's beaming under the attention, and Roman can't help but sigh - it might _just_ be high school football to some people, but to him, his _father_, it's much more, and he really has to buckle down and take it seriously if he wants to pursue it professionally. In fact, that's all he had ever wanted. "Rome, bro, it is so good to see you in normal clothes. Sometimes, I swear all you wear is your gear."

Roman looks down at himself: he's wearing a white tee shirt, fitted to his thin body and muscular chest and shoulders, and a pair of basketball shorts. It's what he wears mostly for working out, which is what he'd been getting ready to do before the Usos dragged him away from his in-home gym. But he doesn't look too bad in this, and he looks back up and rubs behind his neck, feeling embarrassed for some reason. "It's nice to see you too."

A lot of Roman's attention is held by Mojo, who proceeds to pull him through the Cena estate, showing him where the rest of the football guys are hanging out - near the pool, as expected, though some are still scattered around the house - and filling him in on the 'who is' and 'what is' that had managed to happen between that day at school and now.

Apparently, an injury bug was going around, with a couple of guys on the team tearing ligaments and another with a sprained wrist. Nothing that needed surgery, thank god, but something he needed to keep his eye on.

Once he got comfortable in a lounge chair next to some of his teammates, one hour turned to two, and before he knew it, he was knee-deep in conversation. It helped that the topic was mostly football, and when the topic changed, he could let his attention taper off.

Not that he didn't care about his teammates' personal lives, because of course he did. He'd just rather not hear about the sex they had or this week's rumors about who knew what.

When two hours turn to three, he feels his phone ring.

Getting up, he heads into the house, and as he reaches for his phone in his pocket, he bumps his elbow on the railing of the staircase leading up to the second floor. Swinging around it and heading up the stairs, he looks at it.

Thank _God_ it was his mother.

"Hey, Mom."

"_Roman, where are you?_"

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he stands up straighter; there weren't many he would bother to lie to, but one he would never lie to is his mother. Of course, he's not about to tell her that he's at a party, either. "I'm with Jimmy and Jey. They dragged me out of the house again."

"_Those boys!_" his mother laughs, and Roman feels himself relax. "_Sometimes I think they do it more to annoy your father than to save you. Are you having a good time?_"

"Yeah, somewhat. Sorry I didn't say anything. I told them an hour tops."

His mother hums thoughtfully. "_Well, in any case, it's almost supper time. You coming home soon?_"

He hadn't noticed he'd turned into a room, never mind that it was presumably Cena's bedroom, but he quickly walks out of it and walks over to the window in the hallway, glancing out it; Jimmy and Jey are now standing at the grill, telling a story or singing, he's not sure which, but he can plainly see they're having a good time doing it. Doesn't want to put an end to their fun, but he doesn't really want to have to come up with a lie to his father as to where he was and why he hadn't been training.

Clearing his throat, he walks back down the stairs. "Yeah, I'll be there." Hopefully someone can give me a ride. "See you in a few."

"_Goodbye, dear- oh! While you're out, can you get some more coconut milk?_"

"Yeah, sure."

As he comes down the stairs, shoving his phone in his pocket on the way, he feels something settle in his gut; he might have griped about it when he first got here, but being able to unwind after a couple of weeks of nonstop training - breaks in-between for school and sleep, of course - had actually felt pretty good, had helped him relax a little bit. Not that he didn't have fun, but he certainly didn't have other people that were willing to face his father's wrath in exchange for a break quite like his cousins. Loves them like hell for it.

Swinging his body back around the railing and headed back toward the back patio, he feels a nervous thrumming under his fingertips; Roman was anything but mean, but somehow it felt like he was doing some sort of injustice by tearing one of his cousins away from the party just to take him back home. They never complain or anything, it wasn't like that, but he knew they thrived around people and brought the party-person out of everyone.

When he gets outside, Jey is already headed in his direction.

"Hey, cos, you gotta go?"

"Yeah. Mom just called me. I can walk home, though, it ain't that far - plus she wants me to stop by the store."

"Gotcha." Meeting Roman in a high five then pulling him into a hug, Jey digs little play-punches into his arm. "Don't push yourself too hard, _uce_, okay? Jimmy might be a li'l impulsive sometimes-"

"Sometimes?" Roman raises his eyebrow.

"-okay, most times. Look, he might be nuts, but he cares about you. We both don't wanna see you burn out. Football's your dream, but treat it like a job, all serious 'n shit, and you will. You can still enjoy it like we used to."

Roman nods.

"I'll drive you home," Jey says.

"Thanks, _uce_."

* * *

Normal for Roman is dinner at 6pm every night, whether it was his mother cooking a delicious Italian meal or his father taking the reins and cooking a Samoan delicacy. Whatever it was, he ate it after grace and then, after he was finished, he helped his mother clean up the kitchen. Taking as long as possible, because what awaited him up in his room was the cruelest thing ever to a kid in school.

Homework.

It was still early in the year, so he didn't have a lot, but he usually got around to it at about 7pm, muscles weighted after football practice and stomach full from dinner. It doesn't take him long to finish his homework, but it takes him a while to start, because he can't seem to put his phone down.

Normal.

It's about 10pm, maybe a little after, when he finally starts getting ready for bed. He undresses and redresses into his sleep shorts - he's a hot sleeper, no matter the weather, so he wears as little clothes as possible without sleeping naked - and goes to the window to open it, the screen behind it letting in some of the cool Pensacola breeze, carrying salt from the ocean and the smell of dying bonfires. He loves his little beach town, and is reminded why at night, as he gazes across the street at the expanse of water reflecting the night sky back at itself.

Normal is quietly scuffling back to his bed, peeling off the comforter and sheet, but only draping the sheet back on his person. Normal is scrolling through his phone at texts he'd missed and grinning at ones he hadn't, before he decides at around 11pm that he's tired enough to stay asleep.

For the next few days until his football game, it'll be normal, just like today. After that, however, will be anything but normal.

But Roman ... as he sleeps restfully, blissfully unaware ... he doesn't know it yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**howdy-hey. seems we're missing a crucial part to this story. let's rectify this. **

**(updates will be on saturdays! don't worry, we've got pleeeeeenty of saturdays to go.)**

* * *

Normal ends Friday afternoon, as Roman and the rest of the football team add a second victory under their belt, making them undefeated so far in the season.

Roman's role on the football team wasn't one that allowed him to score much, if at all. He was a big guy, though not the biggest, with a good amount of speed and a greater surplus of strength. Defensive tackle was a perfect fit and he played it well, putting a stop to plays that were dire for the other team and preventing their opponents from stopping _his_ team.

When he was on the football field, he wasn't _just_ Hall-of-Famer Sika's son. He was Roman Reigns, beloved by his teammates and feared - on some level, he was sure - by the other teams'. He was the closest to his real self when he put on his helmet, donned his pads and jersey. Just so happened that his father liked it too, where he and Mom sat on the bleachers, a blanket draped around Mom and Pop whooping a Samoan victory cheer. Something he can't make out over the cheerleaders or the crowd or the congratulations being shared on the field.

Coach Angle comes up to him, pulling him into a quick embrace that's mostly chest-bumping. Says something, but Roman's thrumming on adrenaline.

Before he knows it, a microphone is in his face, and a local news anchor is asking him something.

"...I'm here with defensive tackle, Roman Reigns. Roman, how do you think your team did tonight?"

Pulling off his helmet, he clears his throat, pressing his palm over his mouth to wipe the sweat and spit away from his face. "Ya know, uh, things got a little hairy at the end of the first half but, uh, once the other team started to fumble and make small mistakes, we were able to capitalize."

News Guy nods his head. "Good, good. Congratulations on your _thirteen_ tackles, by the way."

"Thank you," Roman quickly squeezes in.

"You're a talented guy, Roman, got a lot of power and brains. It all must come natural for you - (Roman can see that glint in his eye that everyone gets when they try to weasel his bloodline into a story. Shady journalists) do you see yourself continuing on with football in college, or even going to the NFL?"

Blowing out a breath, Roman pushes a hand through his hair. It's started to curl from him sweating so much. "Anything's possible - my end-game is the NFL, maybe in the next ten years or something, but for right now I'm focusing on this team of guys and my play _now_."

"Alright, thank you, Roman."

"Thank you."

As Roman turns away, he hears the anchorman redirect his attention to Coach, who has no interest in picking favorites. He loves the team as a whole, not one more than the other, and isn't about to schmooze up Sika for the sake of the journalist's story. He tunes the conversation out, though, when the topic switches to the next few games, and he is quickly greeted by a guy a few inches shorter than him.

"That was an impressive game ya played out there." Hands a towel out to Roman, who takes it and quickly wipes his face and behind his neck.

"Thanks, Rollins."

Seth Rollins, the principal's son, was a geeky kid, thin and a little lanky. A part of his dark hair was bleached, and Roman never really knew why, but it really made him pop out from the monotonous dark-haired river of kids at the school. He liked sports but preferred to watch them, and was all about video games, which Roman could understand. They were buddies enough that they'd played a few games at each other's houses. Not best friends or anything, but friendly.

Enough that Seth got away with standing close enough to him that his fingers could brush the ones at Roman's side, but they didn't.

"You going out with the team after?"

Roman grins. "Nah. Last time they spilled Coke down my shirt just so I'd take it off. Bunch'a weirdos."

Seth seemed a little distracted as he said that, looking off to the side, into the woods behind the football field.

"Seth? You okay?"

"I think ... there's somethin' in the woods."

Roman pauses and squints, turning his head to look over at the shadowed woods. Sure enough, he saw what looked like a tiny flame, maybe a lighter or a match, hidden not too deep in it, and he breathes a sigh.

"Go get Coach. I'll be right back."

Doesn't even give Seth time to answer, because Roman's already making a beeline for the woods, face stony, trying to look every bit the intimidating defensive tackle that he was supposed to be.

Leaves and sticks crunch under his shoes, and the air is cooler here than out on the field, which isn't surprising; adrenaline, the hot lights, all those bodies, it's a wonder sweat doesn't hinder his eyesight with how hot it gets, so the coolness is welcome for all of a few seconds. His eyes scan his surroundings before his head whips to the side, the sound of music playing drawing him toward the equipment shed for the ropes course.

There's a giant rock past the shed a ways. That's where the little light had been, where the music was coming from.

Where a kid, about his height, shaggy hair and hunched over, is smoking a cigarette.

"What are you doing out here so late?" it's more a demand than a question, and the kid doesn't budge. Doesn't even look up when he's asked the question, and something akin to frustration caused by his decelerating adrenaline and the fact he was ignored makes him stand a little taller. "Hel_lo_, I'm talking to you."

"Hey, s'up?" the kid takes a drag from his cigarette, holds it, then blows it in Roman's direction. Roman waves his hand around to keep from breathing in as much. "You wanna bum a cigarette or somethin'?"

"What- _no_." Roman didn't smoke, and didn't plan on it. "I asked what you were doing here."

The guy looks at Roman, at his cigarette, then down at something beside his leg. Something in a brown paper bag, crinkled at the top, like around the neck of something. Roman knew what that 'something' was, though. "I'm enjoyin' my Friday night."

As Roman takes a few steps closer, it looks like the kid's face is all red on the left side of his face, like he was slapped multiple times in the same spot, and under the dusty leather jacket and tank top he's wearing, he can see a bruise dusting over his skin. Looking back at the field, he concludes the lights carry over a ways, but not enough for him to have made that distinction easily. How could he see that?

"Wasting it seems more appropriate. Dude, were ... were you drinking out here?"

"Why, you want some? Mean, it's all gone now, but I could getcha some."

Shaking his head, Roman throws his hands up. "No! Look, Coach is gonna be here to see what the fuss is about. Ya better go home before he catches you."

"Yeah, right," the guy says. He stands up, picking up the emptied wrapper-covered bottle and swaying as he gets back up. "Rather deal with whatever happens here than at that place."

It isn't any of Roman's business. But he wants to ask 'what place' and 'why'. He doesn't though. He ain't nosy. Instead, he looks over his shoulder before looking back at the kid, which means staring right into a pair of bright blue eyes, because he'd taken the two seconds Roman had taken his eyes off of him to step into his space. Roman, liking his space, takes a good step back.

"What did you say you were doin' in the woods again?"

Roman guffaws.

"This ain't about me. It's about you tellin' _ME_ what _YOU_ were- oh, fuck it."

The guy shrugs, frustratingly nonchalant, but with a hint of something on his lips that suggests he's into this, whatever it is. That only annoys Roman more.

"Ya mind throwin' this out for me?" he holds out the paper-bagged whatever to Roman, who instinctively takes it, but quickly tries to give it back. At this, the other guy just starts laughing. "Yer' the one who wants me gone, 'member? This way I can go and you can go back to yer' friends or-"

"Teammates." Roman corrects. "They're my teammates."

"Whatever. Just here."

Roman grips the trash and looks around before seeing the trash can just a few feet away. He steps toward it gracefully, avoiding a stump and some bigger-sized rocks on his way.

What he doesn't see is Coach and Mr. Regal coming up toward him and this guy, who hasn't moved but has enough time to offer a frustrated, "Fuck."

"Ambrose and Reigns! What are you doing out here?"

"Roman, _what is that in your hand?_"

Roman looked at his hand that's poised over the garbage can, that he hadn't released the empty bottle into, and he quickly tries to think up something but is dutifully ignored in favor of the guy named Ambrose behind him.

"Heeeeey, William. Buddy, how's it goin'?"

"You and I know _quite_ well, Mr. Ambrose, that I am not your buddy. Explain what you and Mr. Reigns here were doing out here, if you don't mind?"

Ambrose takes a few steps into the light, standing beside Roman - yeah, those were bruises, and they were a lot more painful-looking than they were in the shadowed wood - before looking him up and down. "Well, looks like he jus' was playin' football."

"What about _you?_"

Mr. William Regal, guidance counselor for the Senior class, crossed his arms, taking on a similar tone to how Roman had with Ambrose before. Still looks as unaffected by it as he, Ambrose, had been before.

"I was goin' for a walk, thought I'd watch the game."

"In the woods?"

"Yeah, _in the woods_."

Coach Angle walks over to Roman, taking the bag away from him, and Roman barely has time to react before he sees him take a sniff of its contents. When he looks at Roman again, it's not with happy eyes. "Beer, Roman? _Really_? Did you think you could have a cozy drink with Mr. Ambrose here after a hard-won victory?"

"That's...!"

"It ain't like that," Ambrose tries, but Coach isn't about to listen to the kid as he looks at him with a 'Shut up, boy' look in his eyes. Doesn't get that way very often.

Roman feels 10-times more guilty, for some reason.

"Mr. Reigns, Mr. Ambrose ... as it is Friday evening and after-school hours, I do not have the ability to punish you. However, come Monday morning, the both of you, the both of us, and Principal Helmsley will have a chat to go over your punishments. Roman," Regal, who'd been speaking, turns to Coach and then to Roman. "You should join your family, son. They're waiting for you. Mr. Ambrose ... come with me, I'll drive you back home."

Roman nods, takes a few steps forward, then stops when he hears Ambrose's tight, forced laugh.

"What, no 'your family is waiting' for me, huh?"

Roman turns around, slowly, his eyes falling upon Ambrose's face. His expression is wounded, like he'd been shot by someone he cared for, and it makes something twist inside Roman's gut.

"Roman, go on."

He looks over at Coach Angle, who looks about as hurt by Ambrose's harsh words as Roman feels, before he turns around and jogs off, back toward the football field where Mom and Pop are waving him over.

He doesn't tell them about Ambrose, or what had gone down, or his impending punishment.

When Mom asks him, that night, what the hubbub had all been after the game, he looks his mother in the eye and says:

"Just a misunderstanding. It'll be straightened out by Monday, promise."

It's not exactly a lie. But it definitely isn't the truth, either.


	3. Chapter 3

**did i forget? MAYBE. but it _has_ been a busy and stressful week and yesterday was super busy. maybe the blanket update time will be sometime on the weekend, friday to sunday. that sounds manageable. ANYWHO, on we get!**

**(it's not lost on me that we're all a little panicked in one way or another right now, but let me do my part as a creator on the internet and provide y'all with a distraction. c: it's okay. sit back, grab a snack, and immerse.)**

* * *

When Roman is dragged from his slumber early Saturday morning by his father's large hand on his shoulder slowly shaking him awake, he has half a mind to mutter a curse under his breath but thinks better of it by the time he's got his eyes open; it's not uncommon that his father wants him working out, even on his supposed 'off days', and Roman doesn't really mind the idea of bulking up and building more muscle, but ... did it _have_ to be on Saturday?

Saturday was supposed to be his off day. Moreover, his cheat day.

God _damn_ it.

He doesn't complain, though, just shoves his fingers across his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes and the spit from the corner of his mouth. Placing his hand over his eyes like its an awning, he blinks his eyes open a couple of times, stretching his other arm up into the air and arching his back a bit before he swings his legs out of bed and stands slowly.

"Mom's got breakfast waiting, then we're going to take a ride to the school."

Confusion settles in. "What for? I got all my books. I checked."

Not that that had ever been a problem before. He's a good student, does his homework, gets good grades on his report cards.

Pop looks at him accusingly, and Roman feels much more awake at that look. "Kurt wants me to help you work a bit on your speed. This means we're headed over to the school's track to do some good old agility tests."

"Pop, it's _Saturday_," Roman says, voice a little hoarse, forcibly even as he slowly comes out of sleep and into awareness. He does not want to train today. And while he doesn't argue with his father much, he especially doesn't when it comes to training. "I'll work on my agility this week during practice. 'm not supposed to be a speedy guy, I'm the guy that runs other guys into the ground."

"This is true," Pop says, but he doesn't look like he's willing to budge. Roman's already sick of talking about it. "But it's not just about your role. You are just one small part of a bigger machine. You are slowing the machine down, so it's time to put in a little extra work."

Roman tries to stave off the groan the best he can. Only his father could turn a pep talk into a scold of some sort. Damn it. "Fine. But tomorrow is my cheat day, and I'm gonna sleep in." His tone isn't exactly annoyed, even if he feels it, more like a watered-down version of the voice his old man had used earlier, sure and not willing to budge, yet with a tinge of respect underlying it.

Pop nods his head. "This is fine. Now, come on, Roman. Breakfast, get dressed, and we're leaving."

When Pop leaves his bedroom, closing the door behind him, Roman reaches over to his pillow and buries his face into it, uttering every word he wanted to say into its fluffy, warm face until he feels better, then tosses it back onto his bed. It's a five minute process, and he's not sure he's said all he wants to say, but he goes to his dresser and takes out a clean pair of workout clothes anyway, closing the drawer a little harder than he probably should have.

He feels better once he's changed and heads out into the kitchen, where his mother is finishing cooking breakfast. There's a plate of sausage on the counter, and Mom puts half a pan of scrambled eggs with cheese on top on the plate too. Swooping in to drop a kiss to her cheek, he grabs the plate and goes into the dish drainer for a clean fork to eat with.

"Eat up," Pop says in his usual grumble, "You have a busy morning ahead of you."

"Yay..."

* * *

Busy had been an understatement, it seemed.

At least most of it was running - his father wasn't someone who pushed him too hard past his limits, and he let him rest his stomach with walking first, but once it hit a certain point, his father worked him up to running. It wasn't too bad, once his body started to wake up. He started walking the entire track, then he jogged the straightways and walked the corners, and before he knew it, he was running at a comfortable speed around the whole track.

His chest and legs are on fire, his heart racing. But he doesn't mind the movement after being stationary for so many hours, sleeping.

Pop is standing at the starting line, watching him intently, occasionally calling out orders of "Pump your arms!" or "Knees up!" or "Breathe out of your mouth!", which is only so helpful when he's trying not to pass out.

It's more than just relief he feels when he hears Pop call out "One more lap!", and he whoops, putting the last of his strength into his one lap. By the time he finishes it, he nearly collapses against the fence, face flushed and sweat bursting from his hairline and dripping down his face. His lungs are burning, but it's a good kind of burn, and when his father hands him a towel and points over to the water fountain connected to the hose tap on the other side of the track, he breaks into a grin.

"The rest of the day is yours to do what you want."

"And ... t-tomorrow is ... my cheat day."

Pop grins. "Yes, _atali'i_. Let your heart come down, and we'll go get lunch."

Nodding his head - he didn't realize he'd run for hours - Roman shuffles his feet in the direction of the fountain. When he gets there, he turns on the tap and waits for the water to cool, and when it does he dunks his whole head into it. When he's cooled down proper, he takes off his shirt and pats down his face, feeling his abs twitch as he pulls in a breath. Turning the tap on once more, he leans in to drink some water, draping his tee shirt around his neck like a towel before he turns the tap off and sits up.

Feels much better now.

As he starts to walk back toward his father, he hears a whistle from behind him and he whirls around.

That Ambrose kid from yesterday is looking him up and down, clear blue eyes blatantly checking him out with his bottom lip in his teeth. Roman doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed about it, so he musters up his best 'What are you looking at?' frown. He, Ambrose, looks like he'd just rolled out of bed, with a wrinkled tee shirt and basketball shorts, hair a shaggy mess. He's cleanly shaven, though, which Roman supposes he has going for him.

"Hey there."

"Were you watchin' me or something?" Roman raises an eyebrow at him.

Ambrose shrugs his shoulders in that annoyingly nonchalant way he does. When he opens his mouth, his words have this lazy crawl about them. "Not that ya don't have a nice body or anything, but no. Jus' got here." Before Roman can say anything else, Ambrose leers, "Though, ya do have a nice body."

Roman sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, which feels hot all of a sudden. "What are you doing, Ambrose?"

"Dean."

"What are you doing here, _Dean_."

Dean, with this Cheshire-cat grin, looms a little closer to Roman, walking around him to get to the water fountain. Roman takes a couple steps away and starts to put his shirt on. Turning the tap, Dean takes in a few mouthfuls of water, then puts handfuls of water into his hair, combing it off his forehead. It's got to be almost 90-degrees already. Turning off the tap then turning back to Roman, Dean sighs.

"Can't a guy walk around without bein' questioned?"

He seems to be enjoying this a little too much. Roman shakes his head.

"Whatever. I'm gonna go now. See ya later, Ambr- Dean."

As Roman steps around him and starts headed back in the direction of his father, he hears Dean turn around in place, and as he turns around the curve of the track and breaks into a jog in the direction of Pop, he peeks from the corner of his eye to see Dean looking, watching, his back. As Roman stops, he fully turns to look at Dean, but he's gone.

Roman feels disappointed for some reason.

* * *

Sunday, he sleeps in late. Like, 10am.

He's quite happy about it too, and once he's whipped himself up a bowl of cereal, he texts his cousins to meet him at the beach, where he spends most of the day. When he gets back later that afternoon, sunkissed and grinning ear-to-ear, he enjoys a plate of lasagna with salad on the side for dinner. That night, full and sated from the day's activities, he drags his ass into the shower and into his sleep shorts, then into bed.

Not once does he think about what tomorrow being Monday means.

* * *

**atali'i - _son_ (according to google translate)**


	4. Chapter 4

**i hope those that decided to read this understand that this is a p long fic. 49 chapters of blood, sweat and tears, _and a sequel on the way_. i'm working on it behind the scenes as we speak, so this is the perfect chance to catch up before then! (when i have a date, i'll let y'all know, OR you can be the first to find out in my discord server. you can message me -not send an ask, you have to message me- if you have a discord account and are interested in joining! **

**i hope you're all staying safe! WASH YER DAMN HANDS.**

* * *

He doesn't think about it Sunday night, but boy, does he remember it Monday morning.

Roman's the kind of seventeen year old that sets his alarm earlier than normal because he knows he wants to sleep an extra fifteen minutes instead of getting up immediately. He usually showers at night so he has less to worry about in the morning, and every couple of days he has to shave and trim his goatee. But today wasn't one of those days.

What made this Monday different from any other Monday was that there was this ... nervous energy _zipping_ under his skin, swimming in his blood. And that left him awake before his alarm, which he hadn't done since he was much younger, just staring up at his ceiling; he hadn't ever really gotten in trouble at school, aside from a few times a couple of his teachers have had the (dis)pleasure of having not only him but Jimmy and Jey in their classes.

He's not really a rowdy guy, but pair him up with his cousins and no one was safe.

Instead of staying in bed and trying to get more sleep, Roman decides to roll himself out of bed and get into his clothes. His usual outfit is a pair of dark jeans and a tee shirt, and today's tee shirt is a baseball tee that has his number custom-printed on the back of it in black. Brushing his hair is as simple as scrubbing his hand through it - it's short, so it doesn't need a lot done to it - and when he looks over at his alarm clock, it's still early.

It's about a half-hour until he was supposed to get up, so he grabbed his phone from its place on his nightstand, put it in his pocket, and grabbed his backpack.

No one is awake yet, which doesn't surprise him, and he questions whether or not he wants to risk waking his mother or father up when he attempts to make himself breakfast. There was a place he could stop on the way to get coffee and a donut later, so he puts his things near the door.

_What's the worst Principal Helmsley could do?_ Roman found himself wondering, _Could he ban me from playing football?_

The thought made a sick feeling settle in his stomach. Surely he wouldn't.

_He might bench me, maybe for a couple games, or make me stay after..._

After a few moments of deliberate thought, he's not sure whose wrath he'd rather avoid: his principal, his coach, or his father.

* * *

Getting himself out the door and headed towards IHOP was something of a godsend. But he drove himself there, got himself a styrofoam container with a Big Steak Omelette and three buttermilk pancakes, and drove in the direction of the school.

He's not too concerned with getting there early, so he drives until he sees a place where he can pull off the road and he opens the glove compartment, a baggie of assorted plastic silverware tucked away, and he pulls out a fork before he gets to eating.

It's not anything like his mother's cooking, but he knows that this'll at least keep him sated until lunch time.

The omelette tastes off from the lingering taste of toothpaste, but he savors it anyway, keeping himself from letting out an embarrassing sound. He leans back as he chews, looking out the windshield window ...

"No _fucking_ way."

... when, in the distance, he sees Dean Ambrose, grumpily stalking away from a line of apartment buildings. He's wearing the same black leather jacket, worn and dirty looking, jeans that have holes in the knees, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. Looks angry from this far away, and he finds himself thinking that he didn't want to be the person that crosses him the wrong way today.

He hoped he wouldn't have to deal with it later.

It doesn't look like he sees Roman where he is on the side of the road, so he doesn't bother to hide himself. He also doesn't bother to stop watching Dean, either, watching as it looks like he's talking to himself, then he turns to face the apartments again and yells something Roman can't quite understand, flipping the bird, then turning back around.

A few more steps and Dean does see him, and his expression changes from deadly to that oh-so unsettling leer as he swaggers his way over to the car's passenger side window and rasping his knuckles against it.

Instead of opening it, Roman just unlocks the door and beckons him inside. All Dean does is open the door and bend down into the empty space. "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

"Ambrose, really?"

But Dean doesn't look all that fazed by what he said, nor Roman's reaction. Looking to the side, in the direction of the buildings, Dean chuckles before it dies off, quickly as it came. He ducks into the seat, closes the door, and makes himself comfortable.

"Were ya watchin' me?" Dean asks, to which Roman denies. Not that he feels the need to defend himself, but he feels the need to make sure the kid understands. "Not that I ain't flattered, big guy, but 'm pretty sure you're not s'posed to get caught."

"I didn't even know you lived here," Roman says. "I pulled over to eat."

As if he was just seeing it for the first time - he might have, actually - Dean looks at the container of food and sounds off in understanding. "Ooooooooh." He sits back, arms crossed over his stomach, and he looks out the window. Roman's not sure why he doesn't just leave if he would rather, but he doesn't say anything, just goes back to his omelette.

He maybe makes it a bite while it's quiet before he hears a stomach growling, breaking said quiet.

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah."

"...did you actually eat?"

"What are you, my mom?"

Rolling his eyes, Roman takes out his omelette and sets it on a napkin before putting the container of pancakes in Dean's lap. "There's a baggie of forks in the glove compartment. Here."

Dean is so surprised he actually jumps, and Roman takes that for what it is with a frown. His eyes, bright and blue, slowly look at Roman like he'd never known kindness before. He quickly shakes it off though and opens the styrofoam container, picking up the fork and looking at it like he'd never seen one of those before, either.

"You got a problem with pancakes?"

"No, but-"

"Good. _Bon appetit_."

Silence takes over again, Roman polishing off the rest of his omelette and dutifully ignoring the slow, hesitant way Dean finishes the pancakes. He doesn't have to look to see that Dean's watching him as he does so, cautious, but when they both finish Roman deposits the empty papers in the bag they came in and drops it on the floor of the back seat.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, instead reaching for the handle of the door and starting to make his exit.

"Where you goin'? Don't you want a ride to school?"

Looks like Dean literally jumps out of his skin at the suggestion. "Nah, man. It ain't that far."

Roman shrugs, lets Dean go. When Dean makes for the other side of the road and digs his hands in his jacket pockets, and Roman pulls away from the side and drives in the direction of the school, Roman can't help but feel he should have pushed for it, but lets the feeling die off as quickly as it came.

* * *

"_Will Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose please report to the front office? Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose to the front office_."

If there was anything Roman had learned in his 17-years of life so far, it was that in the face of adversity, he should square his shoulders and keep his head held high. So when he heard his name come out over the intercom with Dean's short thereafter, he gets up from his desk before the teacher even gives him the go-ahead and feigns confidence as he makes his way out.

Roman, on the surface, was a good student. He got good grades, he was a talented athlete, and he was always happy to help a student out. But stepping away from that, he wasn't a _perfect_ student; he was still a teenage boy, which made him a little rowdy sometimes, and although he wasn't anywhere near his cousins' class-clown caliber, when the three of them were together, he could be goofy.

He definitely wasn't on the lowest or highest rung on the disruptive scale, but to call him a perfect student aside from his grades and the high school social hierarchy was just stupid.

So Roman, all feigned-confidence, holds himself in high regards and hopes for the best as he makes his way toward the front office. By the time he gets there, Dean's already inside the office, talking to Counselor Regal about something or other. As Roman enters, words on Dean's side of the conversation die and he regards him coolly, before walking over to the wall next to the principal's office and leaning up against it.

"Roman, it's good to see you again," Mr. Regal says, regarding him with a welcoming smile. "Coach Angle should be here soon, and then we'll get this out of the way."

Nodding his head, Roman watches as Mr. Regal heads into his office to wait. When he makes no sign of returning again, Roman starts to pace.

"Dude, calm down," Dean mutters, and it makes Roman narrow his eyes at him, because it was easy for him to say. "The worst that'll happen to you is after-school detention, and that ain't as bad as you think. Stayin' in a classroom for like, an hour ain't nothin'."

But the nervous energy wouldn't be there if it was just 'nothing', and Roman knows that. Whirling around and facing Dean with a very no-bullshit frown, he says, "I have football practice every day for three hours after school, and on Friday I have a game. A big game. The Homecoming game."

"So?" Dean asks, genuinely confused. Roman finds himself wondering if he was seriously not seeing the big deal here.

And Roman prepares to respond before he feels a hand clap on his shoulder, and he turns his head to look at Coach Angle.

"Roman. Ambrose."

Dean narrows his eyes but doesn't look Coach in the eyes, eyes trained on the molding on the bottom of the wall. Roman follows his eyes, looks up at Dean's face, then looks up at Coach again. Finds himself feeling a bit defensive.

From out of nowhere, Mr. Regal pops back up again. "Ah, you've come. Let's go in, boys, Principal Helmsley will see you now."


	5. Chapter 5

**punishment time! also, some other progression! i promise the slow burn is worth it you guys, lmao, so read on!**

* * *

Detention. _Fucking_ detention.

The worst-case scenario had been _much_ worse than the suggestion Dean had made earlier: suspension had been the original decree, but Coach Angle had quickly jumped to Roman's aid, even if it meant throwing Dean under the bus. That was _not_ part of Roman's plan. He didn't want that to happen.

Dean only managed a shrug, which raised more questions than answers.

Principal Helmsley had assuaged the deal, giving Roman 4-weeks detention. Coach, although he was still a little cross, agreed, assuring Roman that it was only a small bit of practice he'd be missing. With a little extra effort, he could make that up easy. It didn't relieve the anxious feeling in his gut, but it loosens it a bit, releases some of the pressure building up, the whine of a deflated balloon.

That left the other serving of punishment, which had definitely roused Dean from his uncaring, aloof behavior.

Coach had led Roman out of the office before anything had been said, but Dean's scream of "_Suspension?!_" could have been heard for _miles_. Of _course_ Dean, being the one that had the alcohol on the premises, would have to deal with all that crap. Roman didn't get to hear anything else after that, but when he saw Dean later, he wasn't exactly steaming from the ears. A little dejected, sure, but not angry.

He can't even imagine what's going through Dean's head right now...

* * *

The only thing going through Dean's head after this morning is 'fuck William Regal'.

If not for him, Dean would probably be expelled, and would have to face the wrath of his fucking stepdad, that much was true. But, _because_ of Regal, he's gonna have to deal with being stuck in in-school suspension for 2 months. How he worked that, even Dean didn't know, but when he really thinks about it, he's sure it's because the old man pities him. That's probably it, because other than that one bit of humanity, the guy was practically ice-cold when it came to Dean.

As far as he's concerned, he got off pretty scot-free. Not like his mom knew he stayed after school, nor did his stepdad care, but such was life. At least he didn't have to deal with detention and missing anymore work than he already had this year.

That would have been the biggest blow to this whole punishment deal, but he supposed he'd have deserved it.

* * *

The worst part of all of this, for Roman, wasn't that he was going to be stuck in a classroom for an hour, staring at a wall or working on homework. It wasn't even that he was going to miss the first leg of football practice. Perhaps the worst part was that, instead of having a chance to explain to his mother and father what happened and keep the peace himself, his parents were going to hear about this from the principal's mouth first. Over the _phone_.

And to any normal kid, they might prefer that the school handle the conversation, but Roman was no normal teenager. Anything he had to tell his parents he preferred to tell them face-to-face. He didn't like feeling like he was hiding behind someone else when he screwed up, and he had no issues with taking responsibility.

But this one issue, his first detention that could have been a _suspension_, he'd have preferred to own up to it on his own terms instead of the school handling this for him. And his father ... well, Pop would hold his tongue on the phone, would ask his many questions to find out exactly what happened and who were involved, but as soon as Roman returned from practice that evening, he would pretty much hear it.

Or, the worse option: he'd hear _nothing_.

When it comes down to it, detention is the lesser of two evils, so he manages to shrug off the nagging feeling of guilt and carry on with the rest of his day. The rest of his day flies by, with lunch in-between being a good break for him to release some of the tension in his shoulders with a daily excursion with his cousins in the front courtyard. A lot of it was spent laughing at the jokes Jimmy told him, or listening to Jey talk about the newest, juiciest gossip going around the school.

Those two were the epitome of fun.

In his final few classes, Roman is much more awake, less like he's watching someone live out his life for him. That happens sometimes, when his everyday monotony gets the better of him, but his cousins know how to ground him again. He takes his notes and listens to the teacher drone on about how many chapters he had to read overnight, and before he knows it, the final bell rings.

Getting up from his desk, he picks up his books and _books_ it out of the classroom.

In the meeting this morning, Mr. Regal had said that he would be holding detention in the music room upstairs. So once Roman made it to his locker and packed his backpack with all of his books, he went right there.

At this point, he thinks running into Ambrose is just a thing he's going to be doing now, because no sooner does he start his trek does he see him coming down the stairs from the second floor. His expression is how Roman felt earlier, a little tired, not really there, but once Roman meets his eyes it's like everything connects again.

This time, Roman doesn't feel annoyed, and he welcomes the company as Dean walks beside him, his pace much more relaxed than Roman's. He takes that as a sign to slow down.

"We gotta stop runnin' into each other like this," Dean says, but it doesn't sound like he wants that at all.

Roman, for the first time since they met, cracks a little grin of his own. "At this point, I'm starting to wonder if you're following me."

All Dean does is laugh - this harsh sound that makes Roman want to clear his own throat - before he sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Could be the other way 'round. You my stalker or somethin'?"

"Yeah, right," Roman chuckles, a much nicer sound in his own ears, before he digs his elbow into Dean's arm. "Sounds like that's more wishful thinkin' than anything. Only time I ever see you is when you're comin' right at me."

Dean doesn't say anything. He's got that grin on his face, though, and Roman decides it's not the worst grin he's ever seen.

He'd actually venture to say that Dean Ambrose wasn't the worst looking person.

"So, what's your punishment?" Roman shouldn't be curious, but he is. He's never really had anyone in his social circle get themselves into this much trouble. It's kind of refreshing. "I'm pretty sure everyone within a mile radius heard you screamin' in the office, by the way."

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets. "In-school suspension."

"Holy shit," Roman says, dragging his hand down his mouth, scraping against his goatee. "When's that gonna be over?"

"Couple months. 'pparently, enough people in the office pity me enough not to expel me on the spot, but it don't matter."

"It _doesn't?_" Yeah, he had to accentuate the proper grammar, but it's more a teaching opportunity than a teasing one. Dean doesn't catch on, just bounces along to a rhythm only he can jive to, head bobbing every now and again. "It should matter. Colleges will see that."

"That ain't any issue I gotta deal with."

Nodding his head in understanding and taking the abrupt ending to anything else he could say, he clutches the strap of his backpack with one hand and flaps his other one in front of himself, as if wiping away the rest of his words. "Well, in any case, _I_ have detention to get to. See ya around?"

"Prob'ly. You gonna be around later or somethin'?"

"I mean," Roman rubs the back of his neck, "I have football practice immediately after. If you want, you can stick around and I can drive you home?"

The look that crosses Dean's face immediately makes that flutter of anger glow in his gut. Like that's the last thing he wants, but is also something he definitely wants but is ... not afraid, but definitely something close. Roman takes the initiative. "Stay after anyway. If you wanna ride, cool, if not, also cool."

That calms Dean down somewhat and he nods. "'kay. Cool. Should I like, go wait, or-"

Roman grins. "I don't think you can come with me. Pretty sure Mr. Regal will catch on that you're not in detention."

The echoing grin, albeit more subdued, that Dean's got on his face at that is enough that Roman considers it a silent victory, and he casts him a mock-salute before tearing off in the direction of the stairs to head to detention.


	6. Chapter 6

Detention is about as exciting as an extra hour of class sounds. Roman and a few other kids - looked more like the type of kids that got detention in movies, delinquents wearing black and piercings in various visible places, not that Roman was judging them - took their seats at a round table in the corner, with him being the only one to _actually_ do any of his work, and Regal followed them all in. There was a desk with a computer in the corner, and his fingers tapping on the keyboard filled about ten seconds of quiet, before he looked upon the kids at the table and told them to begin their work.

He gives Roman, specifically, this look that he can't quite decipher before he looks back at the computer screen.

It's an hour of work and mumbled voices - "_Mr. Football Star? In detention?_" "_Guess he's not so perfect._" "_Don't tell him that._" - that he tries very hard to ignore, but when he's released he's out of there much too fast for anyone to believe that he was unaffected.

Everyone always thinks and says he's 'perfect', and he's never gotten it, but it doesn't feel like a compliment when people say it. Not that he expects everyone to think he's perfect, because he doesn't think he is necessarily, but he's pretty sure he'd prefer not to hear it. Shouldering on through the hall to the gym to change into his gear, he holds his head high.

"_Guess he's not so perfect._"

Yeah, no shit.

* * *

On a normal day, football was a good escape from the pedestal people seem to hold him on, but today's practice feels a lot more like stress relief; his teammates welcome him with friendly smiles and fill him in on the first half-hour he'd missed, and he is off to the races in about thirty-seconds' time.

There's a lot of talking around him, mostly words of encouragement and friendly banter, but Roman remains quiet, which isn't anything new; he could be noisy, normally isn't, but this quiet is so different.

"_-not so perfect._"

"_You are slowing the machine down..._"

"Roman!"

It's too late for Roman to make sense of what happened when he suddenly finds himself in front of Mojo Rawley, whose arms are held out, poised to stop his teammate even though Roman was going much too fast for him to actually do so. His reaction time isn't the fastest, so it's no surprise that they go tumbling into each other.

Mojo is thrown backwards first, and it's a miracle that Roman doesn't land on him, but turns slightly so he can land on his arm. He grunts when he hits the grass, holds up a thumbs-up when several of their teammates start making their way over, various calls of concern and alarm. Roman can't move, though, doesn't want to, because he doesn't want to face the burning question that's probably going through everyone's minds.

What got into him?

_Words. Stupid words. Just ... just words._

"Reigns! Rawley!" Coach Angle's got his hands on his bald head. Pretty sure if he had to hair to pull, he'd have yanked it all out by now. "Please tell me you both are 100-percent!"

Rawley shakes his thumbs-up around. "I'm good, Coach!"

"Good," Coach rumbles, helps him up and claps him on the back. "Go join the others. Reigns, you good?"

Roman pushes his hands underneath him, pushes himself up from the grass, and practically rips his helmet off of his head. Coach reaches a hand out to check his jaw, his nose, moves his head to and fro to check his neck, and huffs in relief. Roman hasn't said a word yet.

"Roman, you've gotta pay attention," concern emanates from Coach Angle's voice, and Roman visibly jumps when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you take a breather, collect your thoughts, and come join us again for some throwing practice. If you want, you can take a walk around the field."

Instead of answering, Roman gets up onto his feet - his ankle burns as he steps on it, but he's not about to tell Coach that, not with everyone counting on him for the game on Friday - and nods his head as he does so, starting toward the track. Coach doesn't stop him, just watches, seemingly unaware of the flames of anger blooming in his blood and seering his vision.

Probably doesn't miss Roman throwing his helmet violently into the chain fence, or the way he shakes out his foot like he's getting something out of his pant leg, but by the time Roman's sobered up enough to care, practice is resuming.

The worst part of all of it, in Roman's mind, isn't that he had allowed himself to get distracted by the laughing voices in his head. It's not that practice had stopped for a whole five seconds so he could have his little episode.

Probably ... the _worst_ part was, by the time Roman made it to the bit of fence that separated the field from the bleachers, he can see Dean staring at him, his expression unreadable, lips parted in what was probably a gasp or the start of a cocky grin. His hair is slicked back some, giving Roman full view of his eyes, which are wide but no less innocent than the rest of him.

Looks like he has something on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say, but Roman ignores him and briskly walks - tries not to limp - past. Whatever he's gotta say, Roman doesn't want to hear it.

He _doesn't._

* * *

He never asks, and when practice is over and all the anger has left his system, Dean is already gone. Roman makes the walk to his car alone, and he's not sure why that thought drags him down more.

* * *

"_Detention!_"

Pop didn't yell much; he was the type of guy that could silence a person with just a look, or with his silence, so when Roman gets home and one of the first things he hears when he shuts the door is his father's booming voice, he feels something cold shoot down his spine. Did they suddenly live in a freezer or something?

The large figure of his father stood before him before he could announce his return.

"Pop, if I could ju-"

"Are you _trying_ to embarrass me?! Is this a _joke_ to you?"

Roman didn't feel humored, but he didn't realize he'd been laughing. He catches himself mid-chuckle, but it's from nerves. This is far from a joke to him. "It's just a misunderstanding! I'll serve my sentence and-"

He had meant it jokingly, his 'sentence', but Pop was thoroughly unamused. "This is a _joke_ to you. This is un_like_ you, Leati."

Leati. His proper Samoan name. Just like that, any humor is _gone_. Roman looks down, rubs up and down his arm, nostrils flared in an effort to stay quiet; the last thing he wants to do is unleash his anger on his old man, who was possibly the strongest influence when it came to his future. It doesn't occur to him that his jaw is starting to ache, either.

Reaching up, he rubs at his jaw, then his neck before he looks up at his father, strong and proud.

His father's face becomes stony, expressionless. It stings.

"I'm disappointed in you, Roman."

As his father turns away, all Roman can do is watch, eyes wide, words he had never heard before echoing over and over again in his head.

"_Not so perfect._"

"_...disappointed..._"

He doesn't realize he's moving, but his mother's concerned voice follows him as he runs up the stairs to his bedroom. His ankle is on fire, pounding, and he's pretty sure the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes are from it, but he says nothing, does ... _nothing_.

The last thing he wants to do is break, and to prevent it, he has to become impenetrable.

Pretty easy, actually - if his father could do it in a matter of seconds, surely he could, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**so. i did a thing on ao3. i was gonna wait to do it until i got a little further with this one (to give me time to write some more of it) but i decided since we're in the situation we're in, i'd give people another thing to do. a world to dive into. so if you're somebody who's read this fic in it's entirety on ao3, go to my profile over yonder and check out what i posted there for ya last week. i strongly recommend not clicking on it if you haven't finished waiopt, though. you have to have finished all 49 chapters of this bad boy. (it's done over on ao3 so if you can't wait weekly for updates, go over there and binge this sumbitch!)**

**thanks to people who are reading it over here! i really appreciate it, and your comments are not going unread, believe me. c: y'all are the best. onward!**

**(EDIT: I FORGOT TO POST THIS. it's been sitting in my doc manager for a week sdfkjg. this means you get this chapter and the next in one weekend. whoops, and also you're welcome c: )**

* * *

Once he gets a couple days of it under his belt, Roman decides detention isn't the worst punishment in the world, especially when he remembers to listen to music as he does his work. It certainly helps block out the whispered voices of the other students, and that makes for a much less-stressed Roman by the time of it's dismissal.

Practice goes a lot better after that one spill on Monday, and he feels a lot better about the way he plays as the week progresses; of course, it doesn't take him long to shake off a funk, because most of the time it's jump-started by words, and words couldn't hurt him any more than a nameless blurb sitting on the bleachers could.

Every day, without fail, Dean is sitting out on the bleachers, wearing the same old dirty, black leather jacket he always wore, eyes always transfixed on the numbers on the back of his jersey as he ran back and forth, threw the football, play-tackled guys during scrimmage ... he never looked away. And the weirdest part of it was, it didn't really weird him out or anything. Dean looked like he was enjoying himself, and maybe Roman thought it wasn't such a bad thing.

Dean starts becoming part of the flow, part of his 'normal', and although he was sure his father would be very against that, he was pretty sure this is one of those things he might not agree with his father on.

And his father ... he hadn't spoken to Roman since Monday evening, when he yelled at him. Nothing more than a grunt or sigh, but he didn't really have to say anything. Pop's silence spoke a lot louder than his yelling voice did, and Roman heard loud and clear. But they resolutely stay out of each other's way, more on Pop's side than his own, and Roman finds himself okay with that.

For Roman, Friday couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

Dean doesn't go to school on Friday.

It shouldn't have been the biggest deal in the world; the day before, Thursday, he had been a little slower in the way he moved and spoke, at least that Roman noticed. And Roman noticed everything, he watched and he learned because of it. It's why he immediately realizes that something wasn't quite right with Dean's absence, but he doesn't say anything.

No one would care anyway. He got the impression that not a lot of people liked Dean ... well, _really_ liked him. He dug him enough, despite their first meeting being soiled by their respective punishments, and although he wasn't sure they knew each other, Seth was in the same grade as Dean. Maybe he knew him.

So when he sees Seth in the hall before his lunch block, he pats him on the arm to get his attention, and immediately leans in a little to say, among the bustle of teenagers rushing to their lockers or to the cafeteria, "Yo, you seen Ambrose anywhere?"

"No," Seth says, too short, as he spins around to look at Roman fully. "We're not in any of the same classes though, anyway. But I guess he ain't here today. Must've gotten sick."

Roman doesn't think that's true; he didn't look pale or anything yesterday, just moved like he was trying not to step on the wrong tile on the floor.

But he carries on like it isn't bothering him, and he's very good at that, pretending that nothing in the world bothers him. He sits through his classes and does what he's told and manages not to completely get wrapped up in the thought of Dean and where he might be. For all he knows, he contracted something overnight, or more likely, he was just skipping school, despite his in-school suspension.

At the school's pep rally, he expects to see Dean's face in the sea of other students cheering and scream-singing the school's song, but he doesn't. Something sinks inside him, but when he feels his teammates start the team's chant, he shakes it off and joins in the fray, high-fiving some of the guys that are standing near him and letting out a loud l augh as the rest of the team continues chanting and yelling excitedly.

* * *

It's a blur, the rest of the afternoon, leading up to the football game.

Because Roman had been in detention, he had missed the bus that would take him to the pregame meal, which happened to be at Mojo's house, so as soon as he was released from detention, he ran out of the school and threw his things into the back seat of his car. He moves so fast, like lightning, that he doesn't even remember the drive from the school to Mojo's house. And he's been there several times, he lived on the same street as Cena, so he could get there without much attention anyway.

The food that he _does_ manage to eat not in a distracted daze tastes damn good: Mrs. Rawley's barbecue ribs, green beans and Lucky's potato salad - a team tradition for every pregame meal - are sweet and tender, practically fall off the bone and into his mouth, and the green beans aren't plain-Jane beans, they're buttered and seasoned with garlic and delicious. The potato salad is sweet and creamy, and adds just the right amount of tang.

Clean-up begins about twenty minutes in, but he's only half-finished. Sticking two ribs on top of each other, he eats them both quickly before using a napkin to clean his face to the best of his ability. Coach goes around and rushes the team out to board the bus once again, and Mojo tells Roman that he can hitch a ride with him post-game so he can drive back home again. Roman grins and agrees, and for a while, he feels the tension that had been building up melt away.

A pep-talk and crash-course in game study later, Roman sits in the locker room, starting to get his gear and pads on. Pregame jitters have worked off the meal from a couple hours ago for him, and he almost feels empty again with the excitement of knowing it won't be _just_ Mom and Pop out there on the bleachers, but his brother and sisters, back from their respective lives.

A smile appears on his face - he was the youngest of the siblings, and his sisters and brother had already graduated and were living their lives out of Florida. He hadn't seen them since that summer, when all three of them had surprised their father for Father's Day festivities. After that, it's been the occasional message on Skype or talking on the phone.

He was excited to see his siblings again. Mostly, his brother Matt, or 'Rosey'. They'd always been close, but after he left to chase his dream of becoming a wrestler (a short-lived dream of Roman's, too, who wanted to be like his brother, but ended up following in Pop's footsteps instead) they hadn't seen each other much outside of Youtube videos or Skype sessions while he was on the road, or-

-he was just really excited to see his big brother again.

"Roman, bro!" he looks up to see Mojo and his other buddy Zack, who was something of a male cheerleader-slash-hype man, in his pads and flashing him a dopey grin. "Your foot feel better?"

"Yeah," he says, soft, deep. It definitely doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel _normal_. "Good as new. Your ribs good?"

"Yeah, dude, totally!"

He sounds like he means it, and Roman huffs in relief, nodding his head, before he stands up and starts getting on his jersey.

"Alright boys! Hustle up!"

Roman pushes the door to his locker closed and steps over the bench as Coach comes in and starts the final pregame pep-talk, his attention swaying in and out of it, and before he knows it, Coach is finishing up his _Go out there and win this game!_ spiel and the rest of the team is meeting in the middle, hands outstretched. He gets up and follows, yells "Gooo Gators!" with the rest of the team, and one-by-one the boys all head out of the locker room.

* * *

Roman has to try not to wince as he wraps his ankle up, having tweaked it somewhere in the second quarter, because he wants to get back out there, wants to show his family how hard he's working despite having detention ... his siblings would get a kick out of his situation, considering he'd always been the baby, the one who did no wrong.

It hasn't been the worst game he's ever played. The Gators are up 25-12 by half-time, and he's itching to get back out there.

For the hell of it, he sweeps his gaze out the window, to the stands, catching sight of his father immediately, Rosey next, then his sisters. He can see several of his teammates parents, siblings and other family spread around his own family, but his stand out above them all, and he's sometimes not so sure it's a size thing or it's because they're his.

He'd be the first to admit that they cast quite a shadow on everyone else.

The marching band and cheerleaders all entertain the crowd for half-time, leading them in the school's cheer and school song. Somewhere in-between the two acts, the Gator mascot is doing a bit with the audience, making a fool of themselves or getting them to dance. It's all fun and the game resumes after it's intermission.

Roman makes a lot of tackles during the third quarter, finding his groove and masterfully ignoring the pain in favor of playing a good game. The team, and the crowd - mostly his siblings, with occasional shouts from his father, because he's pretty sure Mom has covered her face for most of the game, watching her baby tackle and be tackled and probably getting hurt not exactly one of her favorite pastimes - are behind him, cheering, shouting words of encouragement as he gets back up and makes a different play.

It's a rough game, but by the end of the fourth quarter, they come out of it with the victory, 32-12. It's the perfect start to Homecoming weekend, and the team all embrace when they make it back into the locker room, cheering and high-fiving.

Roman's ankle is happy, too, that the game is over; i t hurts a lot more now, but he decides he can just throw some ice on it when he gets home. He sends his father a text that he would be getting a ride with Mojo, not waiting for a reply, before shoving his phone into his gym bag.

The team all grabs their things and goes almost immediately, breaking off into groups by the time they make it to the parking lot. Roman, after grabbing his own belongings, sets off to find Mojo.

He finds him standing by his black truck, standing with Ryder, and when Mojo realizes Roman is limping, both he and Ryder come right over to help. "Bro, I thought you said your ankle was fine."

"It _is_ fine," Roman says, firm, even if he's pretty sure Mojo isn't falling for it. But Roman is stubborn and doesn't need to be taken care of, it's just an ankle, so he musters his best grin and knocks his open hand against Mojo's arm. "Good playin' out there. How many points you rack up? 20?"

Mojo turns bashful and playfully bats at Roman's hand. "C'mon, Big Dog, you can't expect me to do all that – now _you_, on the other hand, were _excellent_ in the second half, bro! Mowing down guys left and right like it's your job! You're the real MVP, bro."

Roman puffs out his chest, grunting a "Damn straight" by way of answer, but inside he's preening. Count on a guy like Mojo to hype him up and make him feel good. Ryder is nodding along with him, hanging on every word Mojo says, and Roman feels a smile break through his bravado. "Whatever, let's just get outta here so I can ice this here ankle."

"You got it, Big Dog!"


	8. Chapter 8

Turns out, as much as they were, well, his siblings, Roman was actually pretty grateful that they had all stayed the weekend; not that he was annoyed with them on any given basis, but they all had their special relationships, and they all included giving him, the 'Baby' Reigns, a hard time, muscling him around like he was a rag-doll with advice he never asked for and teasing he was better off ignoring in favor of homework. In fact, that's where he spent a grand majority of his Saturday.

Sometimes, he just wanted to be alone, and having his siblings here was honestly, truly, great for it. The attention diverted to them, and the three of them ate it up like Mom's home-cooking, leaving him to be by himself even for just a short time. It was a relief much more than it was anything else, and honestly, Roman was grateful for eyes not being on him all the time.

Not that he cared too much about it, but Roman had missed the Homecoming dance on Saturday night, but even if he didn't, it wasn't like he was crowned Homecoming King or anything; he wasn't the biggest fan of dances, mostly because he didn't really know _how_ to dance, but also because he actually liked to hole himself up in his room and play video games or finish up his homework. If he wanted to get into a decent college, he needed to work hard and play hard, and he played plenty hard in football.

Not to mention, he wasn't about to go to a school dance when his brother was at home. Rosey trumped a stupid dance any day.

For the most part, he and Rosey looked a lot alike, which wasn't surprising since they were brothers. Rosey was larger, wider, than Roman, had a rounder head, but they had the same face practically: tan skin, brown eyes, dark hair. They were a lot alike in personality too, thanks to their father, with a perfectionist attitude and pride that would put a lion to shame. The only difference was that Roman was a bit more explosive with his anger, only after a long period of time, while Rosey had the temper of a normal person, a feint simmer that eventually faded into oblivion.

It turned out, football was a good emotional outlet for Roman, too. Kept his head clear.

Clear, of course, except in the case of the last game, where he was concerned for his ankle and overwhelmed by his family in the crowd and _worried_ about ...

_No_. Roman chided himself. _Ambrose is fine. Probably just got sick or something, or hurt himself_.

...yeah, that second reassurance didn't sound too convincing of his argument, but what was he supposed to do, track him down and demand an explanation? It wasn't like he knew the guy all that well, outside of the weird pseudo-friendship that was developing from being a couple of trouble-making teenage boys.

But as much as Roman doesn't want to admit it – and believe him, he doesn't – Dean's become part of his 'normal'. That might, in fact, be how he even noticed Dean wasn't at school at all.

_Ya see?_ Roman feels a mental slap upside the head, but he's not sure if the voice that's talking is his own or someone else, _You've barely known him a week and you're already taking charge of him?_

It was the leader instincts, he reasoned.

(_Yeah, that's what they are_, argues the voice.)

* * *

Of course, come Tuesday afternoon, Roman is a little bit relieved when he finds Dean standing by Seth's locker.

He's donning his usual leather jacket, worn jeans, and a thin tee shirt, that Roman can see, and is talking real quite to Seth as he gets the books he needed for homework and puts them into his backpack near-soundlessly. By the time Roman makes it a couple feet behind them, Seth looks up in his direction and is greeted cheerily, with Dean's head turning immediately in the same direction.

Looks okay, from what he can tell. But he definitely doesn't look that happy to see Roman coming their way. Not that he looked mad, but almost ... sad?

"Hey, Ambrose."

Dean's eyes are cloudy, not as bright as they usually are. Roman musters a little grin anyway, but it does nothing to change it. "Hey."

Seth finishes putting his things in his backpack and zips it up, swinging it over his shoulder with Herculean effort; he even manages to grunt, perhaps for dramatic effect, but perhaps not, with how thin his body was. "Dude, I don't know what to tell you. Later. Bye, Rome."

Roman watches him leave in a hurry, probably to catch his bus, before he turns to where Dean was standing ... only to find he had already started walking off. Put off by this, he walks after him, even if that meant he was walking in the opposite direction of detention.

"You alright?"

Dean doesn't answer, digging his hands in his jean pockets. And Roman knows he probably shouldn't push, so he doesn't, instead slowing down and letting Dean leave. It looks like he staggers a bit, like he wants to stop too, but he keeps going until he's out the door, into the heavy downpour that had come from nowhere.

Rain meant no practice today, which meant Roman got to be home at a normal time for once.

"See you around," Roman says softly, but he knows it wasn't loud enough for Dean to hear.

He's not sure why the walk to detention feels more like a Walk of Shame, but with the way Dean looked like a kicked puppy in Roman's direction, it might as well be.

It's a long hour of staring at the words in his book and pretending he knows what any of them mean. The rain is making him tired, like he could fall asleep any minute, so he closes his book and shoves it into his backpack. He tucks his head into the crook of his arm and pulls out his phone, unlocking it, and scrolls through his notifications.

A comment thread between his cousins and himself is the first thing that shows up, and he clicks on it to see if there were any new messages. There weren't. He then checks to see if anyone had anything interesting to say on Facebook – Seth was having a back-and-forth with a kid at another school named Punk, while Mojo and Zack Ryder were taking selfies together at some restaurant. Other than wondering idly if they were an item or just stupidly-close friends, he continued down the page some more.

He wonders if Dean has a Facebook, but has to mentally erase the very thought. By the way he looked today, the last thing he should do is go snooping around to see if he does. Turning the screen off and sitting up in his chair, he glances at the clock.

He's got about five minutes left.

Roman starts to groan, but he quickly turns it into clearing his throat instead. Apparently, Mr. Regal gains his full attention, and he musters an embarrassed grin before looking down at his lap. This was going to be the longest five minutes of his life.

* * *

He lied. The last five minutes of detention were _not_ the longest five minutes of his life.

Driving home _after_ detention was the longest five minutes of his life.

Once he had been released, he got up quickly and grabbed his things, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible so he didn't get soaked. The rain was so much that water was gushing down the parking lot into the sewer, and as he ran across the lot with his backpack over his head, it sloshed into his sneakers and soaked his feet. By the time he got into his car, he was pretty sure his feet were swimming in his shoes, and he uttered a curse.

Roman _wants_ to go through the motions of taking his shoe off and squeezing out his sock, but the image of him doing it is almost as frustrating as if he were to actually do it, so he grinds his teeth and starts his car, intent on getting the hell out of there.

The five minutes from the school parking lot to his house is the same as it had always been, sometimes stretching to ten if he had to stop at the store to get something for Mom.

Roman sighs so hard his cheeks puff with it, and he slowly makes his way in the direction of home.

He doesn't make it very far before he sees someone in the rain, standing at a crosswalk that's directly under a stoplight. And of course, it's red. Of _course_ it is. So he leans back in his seat, drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the song that's playing oh-so quietly on the radio, and waits for the light to turn.

And maybe he's a little more tired than he originally thought, or he's just plain crazy, but he could _swear_ ...

The person's head is down, but he can see the glow of a cigarette hanging out of their mouth. In fact, when the person pulls the cigarette close to their mouth to get another drag, he can see a pointed nose, the piercing eyes glaring at the stick like it wronged their whole family, before they exhale the smoke out like they were spitting in someone's face. Such ... hateful movements, but as the light turned green, Roman couldn't help but keep sitting there.

The person decides to move then, perhaps realizing that Roman was waiting, and he waves at them as they hobble across the street. They ... appear to be limping, and it dampens Roman's mood a bit more, but he lets them go and offers another wave as they make it to the other side. From there, he starts to drive again.

Who would be stupid enough to be out and about in this weather? He could remember a time where he and his cousins, barely out of diapers, would be out playing in the rain and making his mother and father mud pies, but he is pretty sure he's never seen a person out in something like _this_. But they looked plenty warm enough, in long pants and a hood and a-

...a leather jacket.

Was that...?

Roman swears to _God_ he must have some weird luck – good or bad, he's not sure, but it's definitely weird – as he shakes his head, coming to the realization that if who he had just seen _was_ Dean Ambrose, he was going to ... well, probably laugh, laugh so hard someone might think he was mad.

He hadn't gotten very far, and neither had the other person, before he rolls down his window and calls out,

"What the _hell_ are you doing out in this shit, Ambrose?"

It's a fifty-fifty chance, and after the person turns to him like a deer in headlights and squints like they're trying to make out his face in the rain, he takes a step back like Roman's about to kill him. But it _is_ Dean, the hood over his head hiding his light brown hair but his face looking all-too familiar.

"D-Don't ... you have football or somethin'?"

Roman looks up at the rain, then back at Dean, and raises an eyebrow.

Dean blinks, then does that sharp laugh. It sounds more like he's choking. "Yeah ... well, I'm gonna go-"

"Don't you wanna ride?"

"_No_, I don't fuckin' _want a ride_." Dean looks like he doesn't even believe himself, and Roman opens his mouth to catch him, but Dean stops him. "Just leave me alone. 've fucked up your life enough."

The speed at which Roman shuts his mouth is lightning, and he does it so hard that his teeth click together. He's got about enough time to work together the words in his head, but he only gets as far as "You ha-" before a car horn beeps impatiently behind him. He looks in his rear view mirror, purses his lips, before mustering what was probably a very confused look in the direction Dean had been standing. He had disappeared, and he sighs as he rolls his window back up and starts the drive home.

It's a very long, very quiet, five minutes.


End file.
